Burn, Burn, Burn
by Totschafe
Summary: AU: I was in love. The problem was, I was in love with the man sleeping under a pile of newspapers on a park bench.
1. early pioneers in the knowing

This entire story was completely inspired by Jack Kerouac and all of his amazing poetry. :)

I don't own Naruto. I wish I did, even if Kishimoto is messing with my head with these past few chapters.

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_"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but **burn, burn, burn** like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" -Jack Kerouac

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_Chapter 1 - __early pioneers in the knowing_

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Tiny glass-like rivulets of rainwater slid down the pane of glass that served as Deidara's window to the street below. He was huddled up beside it, his back to a stack of pillows pressed against a steadily ticking radiator that gave off a pleasantly constant wave of heat. He could hear the rain drumming against the other windows in his tiny apartment, and he listened closer to hear the sound of rushing water forcing its way through the gutters on the floor above.

Digging his bare toes against the smooth grain of his wooden floor, he kept his gaze fixed on the sky above, made into a mosaic by the scattered droplets on the window. There were varying shades of gray in that mosaic, and for a moment, he tried to name them all. Cloud, ice, ash, cemetery stone, concrete in the shade, concrete in the sun, daylight glinting off a silver car, graphite… There were far too many shades to name, so he gave up for the moment and blankly watched the water strike the glass.

The apartment he had chosen in the center of Greenwich Village in New York City was what he had called 'the poet's paradise'. To him, the essence of his work lay in the environment. His style of poetry called for a place where artists before him had slept, ate, drank, shit, cried, and laughed. It called for a place that could be both horribly gloomy, and then bright and sunny. It called for a place where _nothing_ was permanent. The apartment was the perfect place.

Deidara had taken the time to learn all he could about the building he now resided in. It had been built in the 1920s as a residential complex for the mildly elite. This was made apparent in the delicately carved ceilings in each room, trying to copy the gilded halls of manors in Europe with a decent amount of success. Old, smoke-colored fireplaces once provided heat to each apartment, where now they stood empty and forbidden to be used by the proprietor (Deidara mostly used his as a sort of filing cabinet now, where he stacked crates full of folders he would never open again). One of the biggest clues to the building's history were doors that where between apartments, instead of facing the hall. The doors that connected two apartments once connected two wings of one whole apartment. Deidara, not being particularly fond of his neighbors, pushed a bookcase in front of his door, just in case the people on the other side decided that they needed to pay their neighbor a visit.

The apartments served their purpose well, even through the Great Depression and World War II. Yet after the war, when most GIs returning were able to move their families into classy suburbs, the apartments were inhabited by a much different sort. It was said that Greenwich Village gave birth to the Beat Generation. If that was the case, then the apartment building had once been a cradle. Poets and painters soon lived in the rooms, leaving behind their legacies by scrawling across the walls with charcoals, pencil, paint, or whatever they could get their hands on. Deidara's apartment was no different. In fact, he had specifically chosen _his_ apartment for the fact that a poet had lived there for fifteen years, writing all across the walls. One poem Deidara was particularly fond of was scribbled on the wall in the kitchen, just above the light switch.

_I ran out of _

_eggs this morning so I_

_made a grocery list._

_When I went to the grocery store I bought_

_everything except eggs._

Some of the other poems had been scrubbed away by flustered maids, commanded by the landlord to make the apartment presentable to buyers. Luckily, the day Deidara walked into the apartment to look at it, he had caught one of them tisking and huffing over one scribed above the toilet, which now read:

_I remember my shaving k—_

_today is the day I ask Mary-A—_

_tomorrow I get some she—_

The maid snarled at the persisting gray smear of blurred pencil, scrubbing at it profusely when Deidara put his hand on her arm, causing her to yelp. "What are you doing that for?" she all but screeched.

"Don't clean any more of those off," he commanded.

"Why not? It's _graffiti_," she barked back, taking the liberty of twitching her hand to get rid of a string of letters.

"It's _art_. You're killing it."

"Listen, mister," she huffed, putting her rubber-glove-clad hands on her hips and blowing a long strand of black hair from her face. "That landlord _pays_ me to scrub this shit off and if he asks me to, I do it. Capiche?"

"No capiche," Deidara retorted. "Because I'm buying this place."

And so he did. Four days after he looked at it, he forked over the money and moved in, with only a futon, a plastic crate full of manila folders, a box full of empty or full notebooks with a large array of pens, and a dirty duffel bag half-full of clothes. He had no furniture (other than a moth-bitten sofa left in the apartment, which felt like it was made of dirty carpet fibers), no food, no _nothing_.

Even after a full year of living there, it hadn't changed much. The sofa remained, being used as a half-time bed for those who dared spend the night in his apartment. He had purchased a refrigerator from the 1980s that hummed dangerously at strange times in the middle of the night, and also a reasonably new stove (which if let running to long, gave off the oddest odor of fish sticks). The futon remained, the crates tripled in amount, the notebooks almost quadrupled, the pen collection became an inky variety show, and he got three new shirts and a nice pair of thrift store jeans.

Every now and then, he added a new poem to the walls, but only the best of the best from his poetry notebooks. On one rainy day, when the radiator wasn't working and there was a spot to the left of his futon that was leaking profusely, he wrote on the stained area on the wall, just below the leak:

_Touching the greensnake walls and how they look_

_like tunnels and smears _

_in the snow and on the street_

_where the woman walks, sad, sad_

_her tears are on my ceiling_

He thought it was remotely profound, and he enjoyed reading it from time to time. After three more rainy days—two weeks before the ceiling was repaired—the poem had a strange sort of bend in the middle, making it look somewhat like a water droplet. This made Deidara believe that nature thought it was one of his best poems.

Another poem was written neatly on a brick just above the fireplace, from the day Deidara got his first job at a Village bookstore just down the street.

_I got a papercut and my finger bled some ink_

_that wrote a book with a tag_

_that sold for three dollars_

That was also profound, he thought to himself. Nature didn't mark that poem, but it caught his eye more than the leaky wall poem, since he wrote it on a discolored brick that was a little brighter than all the others.

When money permitted and Deidara was feeling particularly artistic, he would make his way down to the art supplies store and buy modeling clay. In his box of notebooks and pens, he kept a small pocketknife and an object that looked like a small chisel. Just before he would sculpt, he would make a sort of mat out of pillows in front of his window and sit, meditating on life outside. There, an image would come to him and he would begin to make a masterpiece. It was always something from nature, be it a bird, a fly, a cat, a horse, or anything else he saw outside. They would take strange shapes that some persnickety art critics would call an undistinguishable mess, but what he called a flourish of art at its finest. He would leave the sculpture to dry and harden by his radiator, then place the final product in his closet, where he waited for the perfect day to take it outside and smash it on the pavement. Art was not permanent, he believed. Sculptures were no exception.

With that philosophy, sometimes it saddened him to see the writing on his walls. One day, they _would_ be scrubbed away by finicky maids and persistent landlords. The leak in the ceiling might come back and wash away his writing. The fireplace might be replaced with a plaster wall and the bricks would be recycled or thrown in a landfill. The words scribed by the poet decades before him, and his own words would someday be gone and lost forever. _Art is not permanent_.

That's what was crossing his mind as he watched the raindrops slide on his window. The droplets would fall to the cement, and then evaporate when the sun came out. They weren't any more permanent than art. He heaved a sigh, fiddling with a pencil that was resting by his feet. Droplets kept drumming against the window, sliding…sliding…slid—_yes_, there was already a poem in his mind. He snatched up his pencil and turned to the empty wall beside the window, beginning to etch out his poem.

_Slipperslide drops drumming and singing_

_on my window tonight is the show of the century!_

_Tomorrow people will forget._


	2. Nebiki no Kadomatsu

Oh gosh, thank you all for being so patient. I apologize profusely for my lateness (by months and months and months), but I did get very distracted what with the end of school and all. Thus, I also apologize if this chapter seems shaky. orz

Anyway, Sasori's chapter title comes from a famous Bunraku play, whose name translates to 'the Uprooted Pine'. The story is more about a courtesan, which doesn't really fit Sasori at all, but I'd like to think it more of a reference to Sasori being 'uprooted' from his homeland instead. :D Lame lame lame.

You may also notice the style of writing changes for this chapter. I'm trying to write Deidara's chapters in a more beatnik style and Sasori's more realistically, for characterization. Fun times!

And just ahead of time, I know the reference to a betrothal might be like a 'huh?' moment, but I shall explain. Some parents in Japan still set up weddings for kids, basically by going to this speed-dating type of shindig where other parents show off pictures and descriptions of their children for other parents to agree on. Yeah, it's funky, but it happens. So I'd expect business people are no strangers to it. :D

Oh, and thanks to a good friend of mine, Alexis, for pointing out a huge continuity error in this chapter. It's been fixed, so thanks! And thank you to Blood Drenched Scorpion for pointing out a pretty poignant spelling error. (Bleh, I need a beta. xD)

Now without further ado!

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_chapter 2 - __Nebiki no Kadomatsu_

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_Sasori smoothed out a long piece of parchment paper across the top of the low-lying table before him. With a graceful flick of the wrist, he took hold of a long bamboo calligraphy brush, dipping the white hairs into a pool of shining black ink. Slowly, steadily, he pressed the brush to the paper and made a firm, solid line across its yellowish-white expanse. True to his training, he stopped and admired the line with its striking thickness that would surely last forever.

His wrist slowly curved upward and held still as he gently pressed the tip of the brush to the paper once more, dragging the brush downward and leaving a long trail of wet ink behind.

'Like a river,' he thought idly, then paused instantly. A wince jumped up his back and he sat up straight, eyes centered just ahead of him on the polished mahogany cabinet across the room, a scroll pinned securely on the wall above that read the two characters for 'focus'. His grandmother had scrawled those characters with a skill unlike he had ever seen, and it was his grandmother who passed on the art to him, along with several other arts. One of the things she had taught him was to focus solely on what you create and not to let your thoughts drift, and this lesson was reinforced with a firm smack to the back of the shoulders with the shaft of a long bamboo brush. Sasori had quickly learned that he could not afford to let himself make the mistake of letting his mind wander.

He pulled himself back into a state of meditation, or at least made the attempt to do so. His ankles and knees cramped as he sat in the proper kneeling style. The tingling in his spine had not receded. The back of his head itched, as did his right thigh. One foot was falling asleep and he had to resist wiggling the toes of that foot to reassure this. It took every bit of mental prowess Sasori had to recede back into the sleepy depths of his meditation.

When he believed that he had reached the point of total mental calmness, he raised the brush once more and slowly lowered it into the paper, charcoal black meeting parchment yellow. He began to form the line when a loud knocking on the door interrupted him, causing him to jump and make an extremely noticeable bend in the line, ruining the character.

He swore immediately, tossing the brush aside, causing it to leave a watery black smear on the table. A grumble of irritation escaped him as he slowly stood up, feeling his knees creak in protest against his movement. His foot was certainly asleep, and this was made more than apparent when he stepped forward and stumbled as his foot bent to the side. Swearing again, he caught his balance and ignored the icy pins and needles pricking the sole of his foot.

The trial of getting to the door seemed olympic for the moment and he felt relief when he could finally grab the door handle and pull the door open. Instantly, the smell of cigarette smoke from the apartment hallway reached his nose, contrasting sharply to the sandalwood-like scent of his apartment. Standing before him was a tired-looking Itachi Uchiha, hair loosely thrown in a ponytail, dressed rather informally in a leather jacket and slightly unbuttoned white dress shirt with a pair of black slacks.

"What happened to you?" Sasori asked, nonplussed.

"How to put this..." Itachi began, pulling at his undone tie. "I hate dinner parties."

Sasori couldn't help but smirk at the answer as he stood aside, allowing his friend to enter. Without another word, Itachi half-tossed himself onto the low loveseat beside the writing table, melting downward and closing his eyes with a long, irritated sigh. The redhead loped over to where a pot of green tea was simmering on a stove and poured Itachi a cup, handing it to him as he took it gratefully. Sasori got his own cup and sat down in seiza-style, sipping slowly at his tea.

His silence was an obvious 'what happened' sort of pause, and Itachi took one long sip before sighing again and attempting to sit up straight. "I had figured since we moved from Yokohama, we wouldn't have to stick to traditions anymore," he murmured, pausing after a time to take another sip. "Ah, do you remember Anko Mitarashi?"

"Mmm, the Mitarashi family owns a big restaurant chain, right?"

"Yes, them, and Anko is about the same age as me. Her parents took her over here for a gala so that my family's business could forge a partnership with theirs. I assume you know what they tried."

There was a long, contemplative silence on Sasori's end before his eyes widened in realization. "They didn't try to betroth you, did they?"

"That's exactly what they tried," Itachi grumbled, staring down at his teacup as though it had wronged him. "I haven't seen Anko since middle school. I hardly expect a partnership to be forged based on a forced marriage in the middle of New York City. Perhaps back in Japan, sure, it may have worked."

"So you left the gala because of it?"

Itachi nodded slowly, pulling his tie completely off and curling it next to him like a cotton fiber snake. "Father told me while we were all sitting together, and Anko looked just as surprised as I did. However, I didn't say a word and left. Sasuke came after me but I told him to go home. He didn't need to get involved."

"And so you came over here so you wouldn't have to face your parents tonight or tomorrow," Sasori stated, a knowing expression on his face.

"I figured you would understand."

"And I do. There's an extra futon in the closet over there," Sasori responded, gesturing to the linen closet across the room. "But tonight only. I have work tomorrow and if you're gone more than a day, the FBI will be at my doorstep with tanks pointed at the apartment complex. I don't want to be holding you hostage."

That brought a smile to Itachi's face, as tired as it appeared. "I'll be out by nine."

"That sounds fine. Anyway, you look tired, so I suppose I'll relocate for the night," Sasori said, taking his teacup and Itachi's and depositing them in a narrow basin filled with warm water in the connecting kitchen. Itachi said nothing but gave him a grateful look, getting up and walking over to the closet and fishing for the futon.

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Sasori's room matched the theme of his apartment to exactness. Three walls were painted a deep, rich scarlet red, and one wall was painted a pale parchment color. Scrolls of art and calligraphy hung around the premises in aesthetic positioning. Zen-style shelves contained clothing and objects from his old home in Japan, some of which he hadn't looked at since he had moved. His bed could almost be considered Western-style, with four legs holding up the mattress and a thick mahogany headboard pushed against a wall. However, the bed was low to the ground with futon coverings, giving it a distinct Eastern appearance. Another lacquered work table stood at the end of his bed, an ink pot and brushes sitting in waiting on its surface.

The only thing standing out from the atmospheric quality of the room was a gunmetal-gray toolbox sitting beside an object covered in a dark red sheet. Sasori walked over to it and pulled the sheet away, revealing a medium-sized pile of wood and wire, slightly resembling the beginnings of some kind of marionette. The face on the thing was half-carved, with an angered expression common on kabuki masks just coming to fruition. He sat down and opened the toolbox and pulled out a long metal file, pulling over what was to become the puppet's foot. With quick, sharp movements, he began to shape out toes and a curve on the sole of the foot.

The particular project was just one of many Sasori had completed. One of Sasori's grandmother's talents was building bunraku puppets-the delicate, complex puppets that were called 'National Treasures' by the country of Japan. Chiyo of Fukushima was just one of the best and her creations were beloved for both their complexity and the artwork surrounding them. After Sasori's parents had died when he was a child, he had lived with his grandmother in the mountains outside of Fukushima, watching her at one of her many crafts. While her soul created the deep, poetic lines of calligraphy, her heart was in her wooden creations.

She often gave Sasori menial tasks while she worked, such as sewing up a loose stitch on a puppet's kimono, or checking the hinges within the puppet's head. Slowly, she began to teach him the art of the creation, and when he was eleven years old, he created his first complete puppet. It was a demonic one, with an angry face and thinning hair, with a strange stinging tail true to Sasori's poisonous namesake. He named it Hiruko, and since its creation, it had been his favorite. Since then, he had created dozens of puppets that he sold or added to his personal collection. He made children and adults, demons and good spirits, tragic lovers and jesters. The one in his hands now was a warlord, with an angered face that would someday be animated with moving eyes and a working mouth. In time, he would buy the cloth and decorations needed to make realistic-looking samurai armor, and the warlord would one day come to life.

Filing out the sole of the foot, he thought back on his work, his choice to move, and where he was now. His grandmother had been so angry at his choice, but there was nothing she could do. No matter how attached to Fukushima he was, or how enveloped by the culture, there was some sort of pull to a new place where everything was different. The night he made his decision, they had fought merely with words, but it was enough to force a gap between them. She had told him that his work was half-inspired, and that going away would never help him perfect the art she had taught him, out of what she said was the kindness of her own heart. His response was that she would die a lonely old woman, with only puppets by her side because she never cared enough to keep a family. That had stung her like a scorpion's tail and rendered her speechless. With a weakened gesture, she dismissed him, turning away to face her collection as he left without a word.

A week later, he was in his apartment, already working on a new puppet. Through some sort of divine intervention, someone Sasori's landlord knew was a collector of Japanese art, and was willing to pay three months rent if he could have one of Sasori's pieces. Within two weeks, Sasori gave the man an illustrious puppet of a young maiden, dressed in a serene blue silk robe with a pin of flowers in her hair. The collector was so pleased that he began commissioning Sasori, until the rent had been paid for the next year and Sasori finally got a job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, working in the Asian art wing. For eight hours a day, he explained the meanings of paintings and sculptures, nearly in his glory among the sixty-thousand plus objects he was surrounded by. Along with his commission work, it certainly paid the bills, and he found himself living quite comfortably in a slightly upscale apartment complex.

Since then, he had gotten to be friends with Itachi Uchiha, who came from a wealthy family who attended the museum often. They were art collectors as well, and Itachi had a particular eye for it. The two had gotten to talking, and eventually talking gave way to coffee breaks, dinner offers, and then a tried and true friendship. The reliance aspect of it manifested now in the sleeping, frustrated man in Sasori's living room.

However, despite how pleased he would say he was with the choice he had made, it never did stop bothering him that something felt as if it was missing. It wasn't the missing feeling of not being in his birth country, or anything in that order. No, it was different and alien. He paused as he filed the foot, scratching the back of his head irritably. Perhaps he just felt too cooped up in his apartment, working almost constantly. Maybe it would be best to get out for a little while, other than going to and from work. After his shift, he decided, he would just take a quick walk in Central Park to clear his head. It would certainly do him better than breathing in sawdust and drinking tea until nightfall.


End file.
